My grandfather’s book, “Joe on Jury,” memoirs of an America that welcomed volunteers, peers signing up for civic duty, sitting for days on that hard bench, deliberating. Whether or not they thought him equal was not evident: Italian immigrant, warehouse worker, large, hard hands, soft-hearted folds on a face that listened, observed, recorded. The stories he told of the suspects. Those descriptions of the bailiff. There was pride in those narrow circles, script inked onto loose-leaf paper, lines faded over the years, pages handcuffed into a pebbled black binder. I’ve still got it stored somewhere around here. Shame, I’ve never sat on a jury. The times I’ve been summoned, I’ve been on the stand, countering a speeding ticket (20 over in a school zone) fighting for custody of my kids (yes, I’m aware of the irony), not living up to anyone’s expectations. But oh, the way I write, like I still have my grandfather’s pen. How I long to make something lasting. -Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse
